


A Little Tinsel and Some Mistletoe

by magicbubblepipe



Series: A Series of Firsts [5]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Decorating, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-19 00:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17591591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicbubblepipe/pseuds/magicbubblepipe
Summary: In the days leading up to the annual DPD Holiday party, and against his better judgment, Hank lets Connor decorate the house for Christmas. Meanwhile, Connor comes to terms with having an irrational fear, and accidentally learns about his erogenous zones.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was all going to be one chapter and then I got carried away, so the actual party will be in the second chapter. Oopsie.

  
  


Hank woke up to the smell of food cooking. For the slightest of moments, he thought he was years in the past and his wife was in the kitchen, making breakfast for their son. He opened his eyes to the grey winter light splashed across his empty bedroom, and the illusion fell away. He could hear the television and the sound of Connor, presumably cooking. Hank rolled out of bed, shuffled into his worn grey hoodie and into the bathroom. 

By the time he made it into the kitchen, there was already a place set for him at the table. What looked like the most gourmet egg sandwich he’d ever seen was plated expertly with a side of turkey bacon, fresh fruit, and a cup of black coffee. Hank didn’t even know he  _ had _ fruit. Connor was sitting on the back of the couch, watching tv, his feet planted on the seat cushions. He turned when he heard Hank come in and tossed him a glowing smile over his shoulder. 

Hank’s stomach clenched, skin prickling, heart beating a little faster. He couldn’t help but smile back. “Mornin’. What’cha make?” 

Connor stood and followed him to the table, hands behind his back as he recited the ingredients of his dish like a contestant on Master Chef. 

“It’s egg-white and reduced fat cheddar on an english muffin, paired with turkey bacon and assorted super-fruits.” 

“ _ Super-fruits? _ ” 

Connor lifted a shoulder. “I didn’t name them, I’m just reporting the facts.” 

Hank barked out a laugh and took a seat at the table. “Y’know I told you that you don’t have to cook and clean and stuff.” 

A frown creased Connor’s brows. “I know, and I’m sure you recall that I don’t ever listen.” 

Hank nodded. “That’s a fair point.” 

Connor hovered near Hank’s shoulder, eagerly waiting for him to take a bite. He was close enough that Hank could hear his synthetic breathing; it brought chills up the back of his neck. 

“Mind giving me a little space, there, Con?” He quipped, to cover up his nerves. 

“Oh,” Connor tore his eyes away and took a step back, a tinge of pink darkening the tips of his ears. It was a struggle not to stare at him when he got embarrassed, but Hank managed for the sake of his own sanity. 

Connor was still a little too close for comfort, but Hank figured he’d take what he could get. He took a bite of the sandwich and paused, genuinely surprised at how good it was. Not that he expected Connor to be a shitty cook, but he was so used to everything he ate being saturated with sodium and trans fats— it was easy to forget that good healthy food existed. 

Hank was reluctant to admit that he even enjoyed the turkey bacon, though he still found the entire idea of such a thing to be blasphemous. The “super-fruit” salad Connor had put together was sweetened with a little fresh honey or agave or some shit. And...alright, it was pretty good too. 

“Well?” Connor asked, finally, though from the way he was already smiling, Hank knew his own expression must be a dead giveaway. 

“Fine. You managed to make healthy shit taste actually decent. Maybe you should consider a culinary career path, Chef Connor.”

Connor beamed at the praise but quickly schooled his features into cool nonchalance. 

“I’m glad you like it, as I intend to be cooking at least eighty-five percent of your meals from now on.” 

Hank laughed, crossing his arms. “Oh really? And that’s what  _ you _ want?”

Connor nodded firmly. “That’s what I want.” 

Hank sighed and tossed up his hands, “Well, far be it from me to stop you.” 

Connor was radiating self-satisfaction as he tidied up the kitchen, taking Hank’s plate from him when he was done, while also ignoring Hank’s protestations over doing so. Hank didn’t ever want him to feel like he was doing slave work, but if this was what brought Connor some fulfillment, he wouldn’t begrudge him playing house now and then. 

The TV was on, and Hank could hear the familiar soundtrack to  _ The Year Without a Santa Claus.  _ Amused, Hank stood and made his way to the living room- sure enough, those old Rankin Bass puppets were dancing across the screen. The sink turned off and Connor’s feet were padding toward the couch, where Hank had already taken a seat. There was still a little time yet before he’d consider going to work.

Connor sat down beside him, pulling his knees up to his chest like a kid. It was fascinating to see him develop little quirks and habits like this, and the way he’d started gravitating to certain colors and fabrics that pleased his newly honed senses. He was sitting so near that Hank could feel his body heat warming up the freezing couch cushions. He really needed to crank up the thermostat- one of those little things you forget about when you’re alone and wallowing in your own misery. 

“Why’re you watching these old cartoons?” he asked, during a commercial break. 

Connor considered his question, kneading the fabric of his sweater sleeves between his fingers, LED swirling. “I find them...entertaining? They make me feel sort of,” he searched for the word, absently touching his fingers to his chest. “Warm inside. Well, warm-er.”

Hank chuckled. “So an android is getting into the Christmas spirit, huh?”

Connor smirked, “Yeah, I guess you could say that. It is my very first one, after all.” Hank was detecting a glimmer of excitement in his tone. Adorable. 

“Hank-” Connor said, after a moment of silence, “I’ve noticed that all the other houses on the block have some form of lights or decoration- most of them have Christmas trees in their windows. I was wondering…” 

“Why I’m such an old Grinch?”

“Not exactly what I was going to say but, more or less.”

Hank sighed. “I know it’s probably difficult to understand but, Christmas is only enjoyable for humans when we have other people around us that we care about. Doing it by yourself is just...fucking depressing. And ever since…” Hank trailed off, cleared the lump in his throat. “Y’know. I just haven’t felt so holly jolly these past few years.” 

Connor nodded like he understood but his face was pinched and sad. “Of course, Hank. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” 

Hank waved him off and turned back to the movie. He couldn’t help but think Connor looked almost disappointed, and that didn’t feel so good. 

“This movie always bothered me,” Hank said, in lieu of saying anything deep or meaningful, “I mean, Santa works one goddamn day a year and he’s gonna call out sick? Is your cold just so bad you’ve gotta disappoint millions of kids so you can take a nap? Fuck off, Santa.”

Connor grinned, “I was thinking the same thing.” 

It seemed they were both equally proficient at dancing around a subject. They lapsed back into comfortable silence to watch, in Hank’s humble opinion, the best part. The Miser brothers and their big gay spectacle of a performance had always been a good reason to tune in every year.  

When the next commercial break rolled around, Hank got up to take a shower and get ready for work. Connor had done the laundry at some point during the night; it was nice not rooting around through the clothes on his floor to find the shirt that smelled the least. Connor had been so helpful since he moved in that Hank wished he could do something nice for him in return. 

So, when Hank crossed back through the living room to grab his coat and saw Connor avidly watching Clark Griswold fumble through stringing lights along his roof, he decided to say something against his better judgement. 

“Connor, if you want to decorate for Christmas, I won’t stop you.” 

The android whipped his head around to stare at Hank, eyebrows creeping up toward his hairline. “Seriously?”

Hank shrugged. “No point in forcing you to live like a sad bastard on your first Christmas,” he grabbed his car keys and shuffled into his worn sneakers, “There may be some decorations left in the attic; I dunno. I threw a lot of stuff away when I was drunk. You can go shopping, just don’t go nuts, okay?” 

Connor nodded vigorously, jumping to his feet. “Thank you, Hank! It’ll be tasteful, I promise.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank called back, already halfway out the door. 

Once inside his car, Hank braced his hands on the steering wheel and took a deep breath. He had no idea how he’d react to seeing his house all decked out in Christmas cheer, but that was a problem for future Hank. He cranked up the music to drown his thoughts and finally went the fuck to work. 

 

Connor climbed into the dark attic and reached for the pull cord to the bare bulb on the ceiling. Watery yellow light illuminated the hulking shapes of disorganized boxes left cluttered on the floor. He was unable to stand up completely except for the very middle of the space, so he carefully made his way over to the bulk of the mess, watching out for the beams that criss-crossed the ceiling. 

Stepping around a broken beer bottle, Connor knelt down next to a large, sagging box marked ‘XMAS’. As good a place to start as any. The box was filled with a massive tangle of wires that Connor soon realized were multicolored lights for lining the roof. A quick scan of the house revealed an external power outlet in the backyard, where they could be plugged in. He set those aside for later and moved on to another box. 

Several smaller boxes were within. The first contained a thick stack of Christmas cards bound with red piece of ribbon; the second held an angel tree topper with a glittery gown to match her spread, golden wings. Connor turned it over in his hands, admiring the human craftsmanship, the delicately painted lips and eyelashes, the slight sheen of varnish over her large blue eyes. He carefully set her aside and moved on. 

The next contained a packaged set of red spherical ornaments with gold accents that could still be used. The next box clinked with the obvious sound of broken glass. Connor peeked inside, finding a jagged mess of thin, brightly colored shards. Among them, were a few partially intact ornaments but Connor could see they weren’t store bought. There was one decorated to look like a snow globe and ‘Merry Christmas 2030!’ was hand painted on the back. Another, a teddy bear made of poly-clay, was emblazoned with the name “Hank”. 

Connor shifted aside a chunk of glass and found another clay ornament, made to look like a blushing ballerina doll; one of the legs was broken off. In her hands, she held a scroll that read ‘Julie’, which Connor determined to be Hank’s ex-wife. A quick search provided him with a picture of her face, along with all of her information. She was fifty-one, her reddish-brown hair with a few silvery streaks was pinned back from her face and came down to her shoulders in soft waves. Her face was lined, a melancholy tilt to her eyebrows though her plum colored lips were smiling calmly. Her hazel green eyes were guarded; wary. There was something quietly fierce about her. 

Unable to keep looking, he shooed the image away and set aside the ballerina, deciding to abandon the entire box. No good would come from dredging up memories of Hank’s ex or their deceased son at Christmas. The next box contained a wad of red beads so entangled that there was no hope of having them undone before the new year. The last held something entombed in a thick layer of tissue paper. Intrigued, Connor picked it up and started to unravel the wrapping. 

When the final layer came away, Connor froze. It was a picture frame ornament, clearly made by a child. It was all green glitter on pretzels that had been glued together to resemble a wreath. In the middle was a circular school photo of Cole. He looked younger than Connor had seen him in the photo on Hank’s table, and was smiling up at the camera with a cheeky grin and neatly parted hair. 

Connor turned it over and found Cole’s name clumsily written in marker, along with a date which would have put him at five years old. Something in Connor’s chest clenched, throat tightening with the sudden, burning urge to cry. He closed his eyes, willing back the unpredictable swell of emotion before he could lose himself to it entirely. He covered the ornament back up, swaddling it as neatly as it had been before, and tucked it away. 

That was enough of that. He put together a box of stuff that he intended to use and hauled it down the stairs with him. Already, he was browsing online catalogues of nearby stores and placing orders for delivery. Connor was getting better at finding things that he liked. He’d been trying to stop analyzing why he liked a certain thing and just enjoy it. Every time he did, it got a little bit easier. 

Connor grabbed the ladder from the garage and the giant ball of house lights. Sumo followed him outside, trundling along in the knee-deep snow and snuffling it with his nose. Smiling at the big clumps of snow starting to cling to his fur, Connor added ‘bathe Sumo’ to his agenda. 

He found a sturdy place to plant the ladder and started climbing with the lights slung over his shoulder. Once he reached the top step, he looked down and that was where he made his mistake. A sudden, guttural stab of fear ran him through and he gasped, doubling over the top of the ladder, holding on to it so tightly that the skin began to peel away from his fingers. His thirium pump was hammering like a piston; his eyes were transfixed on the swirling white blanket of earth that seemed to be a million miles away. But it wasn’t snow anymore, it was pavement, and Connor was falling, he was falling he- 

 

Sumo’s thunderous bark brought Connor out of the past with a jolt. From where he was, he could see that an autonomous delivery vehicle was idling at the curb. Sumo lumbered over to sniff the tires and then promptly relieved himself on one before bounding away. The car couldn’t leave without Connor retrieving his packages first. With a steadying breath, Connor slowly descended the ladder, only relaxing when he felt his feet sink into the snow. 

He rounded the house and approached the delivery car. He touched his palm to the reader on the window and felt a faint buzz as the vehicle’s AI registered his serial number. The door unlocked and raised itself, revealing the array of decorations Connor had ordered, including an artificial tree that was seven feet tall. 

It took a few trips for Connor to get all the packages inside, and when he had, the car let out a happy chirp and closed its door. It eased away from the curb and Connor reluctantly returned to the ladder. He tried to focus only on his task, and when the irrational fear crept up again, he closed his eyes and waited for the falling sensation to pass. By the time he was done stringing the lights, which ended up taking him approximately 23.5 minutes longer than he had originally estimated, the sun was going down. 

Overall, he was pleased with the outcome. He stood in the front yard and admired the vibrant glow that haloed the house. Until Sumo made his presence known by shaking off roughly five pounds of snow all over Connor’s entire right side. Connor yelped and raised a hand to cover his face, but the damage had been done. He was completely soaked and wow,  _ that _ was cold.

Connor could feel himself actually start to shiver, his body temperature obviously well below optimal. The novelty of the feeling wore off quickly and Connor was quite ready to be inside again. With a hold on Sumo’s collar, Connor wrangled him through the house and into the bathroom, the dog grumbling and dragging his feet the whole way. 

Once inside with the door closed, Connor herded Sumo into the bathtub, which was a feat in and of itself; he had never been more grateful for his android strength. He turned on the hot water and used a pitcher (kept near the tub for this purpose) to wash away all the clumps of snow and ice matted into Sumo’s thick fur. He struggled to hold onto Sumo with one hand and reach for the dog shampoo with the other, the slippery dog occasionally throwing the bulk of his weight into Connor’s torso in a desperate bid for freedom.

Halfway through his rinsing, Sumo decided he’d been in the bath for long enough. In a burst of energy uncharacteristic to the lazy St Bernard, he vaulted right over Connor’s shoulder, his big feet skidding wetly on the linoleum. 

“Damn it,” Connor swore, going after him with every towel at his disposal. He wasn’t quick enough, however. 

Sumo gave an almighty shake, thoroughly drenching Connor and the entire bathroom. With a groan of defeat, Connor sat on the floor. Of course, Sumo lumbered over and sat down in front of him, planting a sloppy kiss on Connor’s face. It was impossible to stay annoyed at him for long. Connor gave in with a smile and hugged the big dog, effectively trapping him in the process. Sumo heaved a sigh and gave up the struggle, resting his massive head on Connor’s shoulder while he was towelled dry. 

Three towels later, the dog and the bathroom were both mostly dry; Connor changed his clothes and was finally ready to start decorating the inside of the house. From what he understood, and this was limited to the Christmas movies he’d seen thus far, the most important element was the tree. It was a bizarre tradition, to be certain. Connor couldn’t understand the logic behind bringing a plant indoors and festooning it with glass balls to celebrate the birth of Christ. It was pretty though.

The assembly instructions for the tree were simple enough to follow and Connor had it standing in minutes. He fluffed out the branches to make it look more natural, and was suddenly struck with a realization. He found himself relating to the plastic tree; something designed to look real, made to serve one purpose and then be disassembled. Doubt suffused Connor’s thoughts, bringing him back to the core of his anxiety. 

_ I’m just a poor substitute for the real thing. _

 

The statistical likelihood of Hank reciprocating Connor’s feelings, for which Connor kept a mental scale, dropped from 40% to 20%. The only reason there had ever been for making romantic partner androids was their lack of autonomy; the human owner could mold the android to fit their ideal partner. But now that androids were waking up, this was no longer true. It was now unlawful to force oneself on an unwilling android, and doing so would land you in jail for a long time. 

So now, what was Connor’s appeal exactly? What made him more desirable than a flesh and blood human, now that he was endowed with the ability to say no? Then again, Connor had never been very obedient and Hank seemed to like him anyway. Markus truly seemed to think that Connor had a chance, but Markus tended to see the glass as half full. 

Dwelling in these thoughts was a waste of time and Connor didn’t have much of it left before Hank would be home. He shook himself free of his weird trancelike staring at the tree and strode over to the television. He interfaced with its library and found a Christmas themed music playlist, which he proceeded to turn up very loud. That should help drown out his insecurities long enough to finish decorating. 

Hank left the precinct just after eight o’clock. He’d run out of stuff to do about an hour ago but wanted to give Connor plenty of time to finish up. Assuming that Connor wouldn’t have had time to make him an obnoxiously healthy dinner, Hank decided to swing by the Chicken Feed before heading home. 

After he shot the shit with his ‘less than reputable’ friends, Hank took his greasy paper bag to back to his car. In the ten minutes it took to get back to his house, he managed to wolf it down and crammed the bag into his footwell, so as not to face that look of disapproval on Connor’s face. Goddamn, he was whipped. 

As soon as he turned down his street, he could see the glow of lights that were all too familiar. Hank felt a twisting in his gut that didn’t have anything to do with indigestion. Grip tight on the steering wheel, to keep himself grounded, Hank pulled into his driveway and sat for a moment. If he let himself, he could drown in the memories those lights envoke. He was sorely tempted to back out of the driveway and go to Jimmy’s Bar instead. 

But he couldn’t do that. Cole was gone and there was nothing that could bring him back. But Connor was here. He was inside, and he’d gone through all this trouble to make their first Christmas together special. 

Hank huffed a soft laugh at his own thought, heat prickling the back of his neck.  _ Together _ , as if he and Connor were a couple.  _ Yeah right, dream on old man.  _

With a steadying breath, Hank killed the ignition and got out of his car. The wind was viciously cold, peppered with sleet that stung the skin. Hank kept his head down and hurried inside. The first thing he became aware of was the glorious warmth that enveloped his whole body like a hug. Sumo waddled over to say hello while Hank stomped the snow from his shoes. He ruffled the dog’s head and shucked off his coat. 

“Hank!” 

He looked up to see Connor coming out of the kitchen with a broad smile on his face. For the first time, Hank took a moment to really look around. And realized that he could barely recognize his sad, drab house underneath all the garlands and bows. 

Mouth agape, Hank turned a slow circle, taking in his surroundings. The TV was displaying that crackling yule log channel and Connor had Hank’s one and only Christmas themed record on. The tree was huge, bedecked in tinsel and ornaments, all rich dark shades of red, green, and gold. Some fake snow material clung to the tips of the branches, sparkling in the warm toned LED lights. 

Hank didn’t recognize any of this stuff, which was fine with him. He didn’t need to be reminded of his old life everywhere he turned. But there, at the top of the tree, he saw a familiar face; Connor brought down the angel from the attic. The old girl had been passed down to Hank and had originally belonged to his great grandmother; and seeing it there sparked such a nostalgic happiness that he couldn’t help but smile. 

He could feel Connor watching him, no doubt measuring every minute expression passing over Hank’s face.  _ Ah well, let him watch. He deserves it.  _

The tree had a plush white skirt embroidered with gold thread and beads. To Hank’s surprise, he found a couple of pristinely wrapped boxes already underneath. There were stockings on the wall too, each one with a gold letter pinned to the front. One H, one C, and one S. Hank bit his lip against the grin that wanted to bloom. It was just too endearing; he felt like doing something uncool like hugging Connor, and maybe kissing his goofy little face for good measure. 

Instead, he asked, “What’s that smell?”

“I’m simmering a pot of water with some cinnamon sticks on the stove.”

Hank lifted his eyebrows and nodded; he’d never think to do that. 

“I like the smell of cinnamon,” Connor said proudly, clearly happy to have formed another solid opinion. “But if you don’t, I can get rid of it, of course.”

“Calm down, I like it just fine,” Hank said, waving off his concern. “You did a good job, Connor. Everything looks really nice.” 

Connor flushed with pride and ducked his eyes, smiling at his feet. “Thank you, Hank.” 

Hank wondered if Connor was aware of the way he looked; the way his entire being seemed to glow when he was praised. The sweetly submissive gesture of averting his gaze, long, sooty lashes touching his cheeks. This was a dangerous thought train to board, so Hank decided it was time to hop off. 

“I’mma grab a shower,” He announced, and fled the room. You know, like a coward.

Once safe inside the bathroom, Hank took a moment to wonder what the hell was wrong with him. Thoughts were popping up unbidden, like exploiting Connor’s sensitivity to praise in a variety of extremely gratifying ways. He groaned, feeling a headache coming on, not to mention the embarrassing amount of interest his body was showing in his intrusive thoughts. He had a feeling it would probably be a long shower. 

 

Connor was seated at the kitchen table with a stack of white printer paper and a pair of scissors when Hank reemerged. In the center of the table was a rapidly growing pile of paper snowflakes. Fingers moving nimbly, Connor rotated the folded paper in his hand, the other making precise snips with the scissors. 

Hank watched for a moment before making his presence known. “Whatcha up to now?”

Connor unfolded the one in his hands to reveal the most intricately designed snowflake that Hank had ever seen. 

“What do you think?”

“Holy shit,” Hank exclaimed. Connor felt a heady rush of pride at Hank’s genuine reaction.

At that moment, Hank put a hand on the back of Connor’s neck and plucked another snowflake from the pile.

“Connor, these are incredible.” 

Connor had gone very still under Hank’s hand and when he applied a bit of pressure, he felt the android’s body shudder. His LED was flickering erratically. 

“Con?” 

With a sharp breath, Connor blinked and seemed to come back online. He turned and gave Hank a dark, searching look, his light spinning on yellow. Connor wasn’t sure what was happening to him. Hank had touched him many times before, usually more than five times a day, so what was so special about this touch? 

“Can you do that again?” Connor asked, his voice tentative, almost shy. 

Hank froze and Connor could feel the human’s temperature rising through the palm still touching the back of his neck. 

“This?” Hank asked, squeezing again, a little harder this time. 

Connor’s eyes fluttered shut and he let out a quiet groan. How could a touch on his neck stimulate his entire body? He felt shocks of electricity racing down his spine, tingling in his rapidly hardening nipples. His own internal temperature was climbing. 

Hank huffed in amusement. “Didn’t know androids could get sore muscles. You don’t even  _ have _ muscles, do you?”

“Huh?” Connor said, eloquently. 

Hank was starting to feel alarmed. He abruptly stopped touching Connor, even though he wouldn’t mind hearing that low groan again...and again. 

“You okay?”

Connor’s face was filling with heat. “I’m...I’m not sure.” 

“Did I hurt you?” 

Connor shook his head, LED still processing. “It just...felt good is all,” Connor said, avoiding Hank’s gaze. “I’m still new to experiencing pleasure. I apologize if I made it awkward.”

_ Experiencing pleasure. Jesus Christ.  _ Hank’s head was spinning and he hoped Connor wasn’t scanning him because Hank was certain he was displaying all the symptoms of sexual arousal. Did Connor even understand the implications of what he was saying? Hank knew the android had zero experience in this area and he suddenly felt like an old perv. The last thing he wanted was to take advantage of Connor’s naivete, no matter how tempting it may be. 

“Don’t apologize,” Hank said, voice a little rougher than he expected it to be, “S’only natural.” 

Connor nodded, his LED flickering between blue and yellow before settling on steady blue. Hank let out a breath and took a step back from Connor, hands now in the pocket of his hoodie. 

“I’m gonna go see what crappy holiday special is on tonight,” Hank said, “Wanna come?”

Connor turned and smiled, looking like he was back to his usual self. “Absolutely.” 

They settled together on the couch, Sumo climbing up and stretching out over the both of them, his head cradled in Connor’s lap. Hank did his best to keep his distance but Connor didn’t seem interested in personal space tonight. He pressed himself right against the Lieutenant’s side, radiating enough warmth to put a fireplace to shame. 

Halfway through  _ Home Alone _ , Hank stretched his arm over the back of the couch and that’s the closest he’d come to making a move on someone in literal years.  _ What are you doing, Anderson? You’re getting into dangerous territory. _

For once, Hank managed to silence that nagging voice in his head and just pretend for a moment that he could have this. That he and Connor were together, that he was allowed to touch him and look at him as much as he wanted. Just for now, there was nothing but the three of them and the blizzard that was kicking up outside. And Hank felt something approaching contentedness for the first time in a long time. 


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning, it was clear that neither of them would be going anywhere. A deep blanket of snow ensconced everything in blinding white. Hank’s car was buried under at least two feet of the stuff and there was no way he was trudging out there to shovel it off. In fact, Hank was prepared to spend the entire day inside, until Connor asked him to come out to play with him and Sumo.

A refusal was poised on Hank’s lips but it died away in the unstoppable force that was Connor’s puppy face. Hank sighed in a very put—upon way and reluctantly stood. Connor brightened instantly, bouncing a little in place, that smug little smile curling his lips. What an adorable fucking bastard. 

Hank pulled on his coat and shoes and followed the excitable android into the back yard. He had to admit, it was a pretty day. The sun was shining and the sky was a deep, cloudless blue; the wind from the day before was gone and in its place was a crystalline silence that only several feet of snow can provide. The yard’s lone tree stretched its bare, skeletal fingers heavenward, a male cardinal perched picturesquely on the outermost branch.

Sumo was already galumphing through the powdery snow, though he was up to his chest in it. While he was watching the dog, he didn’t notice Connor bending down to form a snowball and so was utterly shocked when a blast of cold hit him in the back of the head. 

“FUCK!” Hank exclaimed, ducking his head as if that could help him now. He shook off the snow, his hair now wet and sticking to the back of his neck. 

When he turned around, Connor was standing there with his hands behind his back, a deceptively innocent look on his face. 

“Something wrong?” Connor asked, eyebrows quirked in mock concern.

Hank chuckled, low and dangerous. He noticed Connor’s mouth drop open a little and counted that as a win. “Oh you’re gonna get it, you little shit,” he growled and set about packing together his own ammunition. 

In the time it took to form a snowball, Connor made a break for the tree, using its cover to reload. Hank started moving in, keeping low to the ground and walking fast— or as fast as he could, given the snow that was nearly up to his knees. Connor frantically piled snowballs into his arms and tried to run, but Hank snagged the back of the android’s jacket and held him aloft. 

He made a comical yelping sound when his feet left the ground, and an even better shriek as Hank shoved the dripping wad of snow in his fist down the back of Connor’s shirt. Hank cackled at his misery; Connor thrashed in his hold, getting increasingly frustrated. 

“Haaank, come on,” Connor practically whined, LED flashing yellow. 

“You asked for this, you fuckin’ brat!”

Connor’s elbow shot back and rammed Hank in the gut. 

His air escaped in an ‘oof’ and he lost his tentative balance, falling backwards into the snow, with Connor landing right on top of him. Connor sat up, bracing himself on Hank’s chest, which was shaking with laughter. Giving into the absurdity of the moment, Connor started laughing too, which caused Sumo to bark and charge over to give them both lots of kisses.

“I’m sorry,” Connor said, after his laughter had subsided. His eyes looked genuinely distraught, “I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”

“Pff,” Hank said, his voice coming out as more of a wheeze, betraying his words, “You call that hard? Barely a tickle.”

Connor rolled his eyes, his smile returning. “Well for what it’s worth, I  _ am _ sorry.”

“Yeah and I’m sorry for scruffing you like a kitten, I guess.”

Connor’s cheeks colored at that. He crossed his arms, looking adorably petulant. 

“Admit it,” Hank goaded, “You’re a little impressed.”

Connor sighed, glancing away. “Though it was a touch degrading, I must admit, I’ve always been impressed by your strength.”

Well, shit. Hank hadn’t been expecting that response. He swallowed, mouth going dry. At some point, his hands and come up to hold Connor’s thighs where he was still straddling him. Connor seemed to notice at the same moment, his body going tense. He looked down at Hank, lips parted like he wanted to say something but no words would come. Hank wondered if he was imagining the slight dilation of Connor’s pupils; and if android eyes even did that. 

Suddenly, Hank became vividly aware of Connor’s ass settled on his groin, and the tent that Hank was starting to pitch in response. Feeling hot under the collar, Hank prayed Connor wouldn’t notice because there was no willing away a boner when the cause of said boner is pressed up against it. 

Luckily Connor chose that moment to stand, straightening his clothes and offering his hand to Hank. Exposed to the cold, Hank’s problem was swiftly dissipating. He took Connor’s hand and the android pulled him to his feet effortlessly. Hank mumbled a quiet ‘thanks’ and started brushing the snow off his back and legs, shivering at the cold fabric clinging to his body. 

“Well, as much I enjoy freezing my nuts off, I’m gonna go get warm now.” Hank said, “Coming?” 

“Wait, one more thing!” Connor held up a hand, gesturing that Hank should stay. 

And then he flopped straight back into the snow, spread eagle. Hank watched in confusion as Connor started to move his arms and legs in a familiar fashion. 

“You gotta be kidding,” Hank laughed, “A snow angel?”

Connor finished and stood, admiring his work. “I saw it on TV and I wanted to try it.” 

The simple joy in Connor’s eyes was heartwarming and Hank felt the fond smile forming on his own face. It was starting to snow again, gently. Tiny flakes collected on Connor’s dark hair, sticking to the ends of his perfect eyelashes. Something in Hank’s chest contracted almost violently at the sudden wave of unmistakable love he felt for this boy. 

There was no use denying it anymore. Hank could admit it to himself, if not to anyone else. No other feeling could be this exquisitely painful, this agonizingly sweet. He was in  _ love _ . With  _ Connor _ . Fuckin’ A. 

 

…

 

The day before the party, Connor started to feel something he could only categorize as ‘nervous excitement’. He was more than ready to return to the DPD, if only for a night; he missed investigative work so much it hurt sometimes. On top of that, Connor was excited to be included in a human tradition, alongside Hank no less.

He started pre—constructing possible scenarios, from what he understood about social gatherings of this sort. Would there be dancing? Certainly there would be alcohol consumption, which Connor had never done before and was curious to try. When he expressed this wish to Hank, he was bewildered. 

“You can drink? Why the fuck haven’t you mentioned this before?”

Connor shrugged, “Guess I just never felt like it.”

“How does that even work?” Hank asked, and then tacked on, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all. I have a compartment which can hold up to a liter of fluid at a time. This is necessary for blending in with a human crowd in undercover situations. My biocomponents can analyze and take useful material from whatever I’ve consumed and the rest can be disposed of at a convenient time or kept as evidence. Alcohol is one of the substances that can be broken down and absorbed into my Thirium stream, causing an intoxicating effect until it wears off.”

“Jeeze,” Hank scratched the back of his neck, looking a tad overwhelmed. “Well that’s. Huh. Cool.”

Connor suddenly felt self-conscious; he usually did anytime he had to explain any non-human-like function he was capable of. He constantly wondered if his android biology unnerved Hank. He knew that his method of testing forensic samples disgusted him so why should this be any different?

“Hey,” Hank startled him out of his thoughts and Connor jerked his head in the Lieutenant’s direction. 

“Yes?”

Hank gestured vaguely, “You’re uh, little light is flashing yellow. Are you okay?”

Embarrassed at being caught, he turned away enough so that his LED wouldn’t be visible to Hank. 

“I’m fine, just thinking,” Connor replied. 

Hank stared him down, clearly unmoved by his obvious lie. “You know you can talk to me, right?” he said, voice quiet and concerned. The wires in Connor’s abdomen twisted uncomfortably. 

Connor nodded, eyes prickling with the abrupt urge to cry. He fought it back valiantly and forced a brittle smile.

“Yes, thank you. And you know that I extend the same offer to you, Hank.”

Hank ran a hand back through his hair, looking a little flustered. He cleared his throat before he spoke. “Yeah, sure. Thanks Con.”

Connor’s fingers twitched with the desire to slide through the soft, silver strands himself, to bury his hands in Hank’s hair, pull it a little to see if it made him gasp. He felt his temperature rise and exhaled a warm breath, squashing those unwanted thoughts down into the same dark, secret place he kept everything else that scared him. 

After Hank left for the precinct, Connor started researching the art of dance. Just in case the need were to arise, he didn’t want to be caught unawares. He ended up being fascinated by the subtle intricacies of the choreography and decided to start downloading the routines he liked best. The YouTube hole he’d fallen down led him to a playlist of ballroom dancing. Connor scrolled down the list, stopping when he saw a thumbnail of two men dancing together, wearing tuxes, and pressed together from chest to groin. 

His thirium pump stuttered a little and he clicked the video. In it, the two men moved gracefully onto the dance floor, the taller one taking the lead. Connor watched the steps, the extensions and lines, and determined that they were doing a type of modified waltz. But it was difficult to give his full attention to the dance itself when all he could think about was Hank’s big hand on his waist, his own arms up around the Lieutenant’s neck. 

He felt his face warm, his mind’s eye supplying him with a vivid image of Connor wrapped up in Hank’s strong arms, allowing himself to be dipped and twirled around a dancefloor. He imagined everyone watching them and felt a surge of possessiveness;  _ I want you to be mine, and I want them all to know it.  _

Connor shook his head, dispelling the daydream and closing out of the video. His body was thrumming with nervous tension and he couldn’t stay seated any longer. He crossed the room to the record player and picked something at random to put on. It was a collection of old jazz music, the serene, lovely face of Billie Holiday on the cover. The needle coaxed a swell of music from the vinyl grooves, filling the room with its warm sound. 

Letting his eyes drift closed, Connor pulled up a set of steps that fit the tempo and let himself start to move around the room, envisioning Hank in front of him, cradling Connor’s raised hand with his own, the broad palm of his other hand stretched across the small of Connor’s back. He shivered at the phantom touch, pretending to be led around the room in careful circles. 

His movements were rigid and uncertain at first, but the more he practiced, the more fluid he became, making the dance his own and imbuing it with his natural grace. That is, until his shin collided with the furry lump that was Sumo and he barely managed to catch himself before toppling over the dog. Sumo boofed quietly, but was otherwise unperturbed. 

Connor caught his reflection in the black screen of the television and started to feel foolish. This was senseless; there probably wouldn’t be any dancing at the party, and even if there was, how could he get Hank to dance with him? It was one thing to be gentle with one another within their own home but asking Hank to dance with an android in front of all of his coworkers, including anti-android asshole, Gavin Reed? Well, the odds were statistically too small to even consider. 

Still, he felt the urge to sway to the music; so he let the record play while he started fixing something for dinner. He decided that he liked jazz very much, and was happy to have another thing he could share with Hank. He let the rhythm color his movements, elongating every motion into a sort of dance. Humming to himself, he chose a recipe from the collection he had saved and started to gather his materials. 

 

…

 

Hank could hear music before he was even inside his house. Curious, Hank entered as quietly as possible, managing to not even alert Sumo. One of his records was spinning away on the Cassio, an old jazz album. Nat King Cole’s smooth, deep voice crooned loudly enough to muffle his footsteps as he made his way toward the light spilling from the kitchen. 

_ The very thought of you _

_ And I forget to do _

_ All the ordinary things _

_ That everyone ought to do... _

  
  


He froze when Connor literally danced into view, his back to Hank as he maneuvered around the kitchen. Hank could hardly believe what he was seeing. The music seemed to be travelling through Connor, guiding the slow rocking of his hips, shifting his weight from foot to foot with a lazy sort of grace. Hank’s eyes roved over that slender frame; Connor’s form-fitting jeans complemented the plump curve of his backside, the soft grey sweater he wore shifted over his broad shoulders, allowing Hank to see the myriad freckles and beauty marks adorning the back of Connor’s neck. 

 

_ I’m living in a kind of daydream _

_ I’m happy as a king _

_ And foolish as it may seem, _

_ To me, that’s everything. _

 

The remembered sensation of that soft skin beneath his palm and the way Connor had reacted; it made him want to touch him again. Hank curled his hands into fists to repress the urge to walk over there and put them right on those swiveling hips, guide them back against his own, move them both together. 

_ The mere idea of you, _

_ The longing here for you. _

_ You’ll never know _

_ How slow the moments go _

_ Until I am near to you… _

 

Connor pulled something out of the oven, set it down on the stove, and sashayed to the fridge. He had to bend over to look for something, still sort of swaying back and forth so his ass was on tantalizing display, moving in teasing little circles that made Hank have to stifle down the groan building in his throat. 

 

_ I see your face in every flower, _

_ Your eyes in stars above. _

_ It’s just the thought of you, _

_ The very thought of you, _

_ My love… _

 

The music was swelling and Connor gave a little twirl when he crossed back to the stove. That was, until he caught sight of Hank standing there dumbly, a few feet from the door. Connor froze, eyes wide, his LED briefly flashing red. Hank felt like an asshole for just standing there but he was at a loss for words.

After an amusing array of facial acrobatics, Connor seemed to settle on mortified, cheeks flaming with twin spots of color. 

“You’re home approximately thirteen minutes early,” Connor said, in lieu of an explanation. 

“I, uh,” Hank started, his mind revving and stalling and producing zero helpful thoughts. 

The song ended, and of course, it had to be the last one on the record. Empty crackles filled the air before the inevitable silence descended on the room. Hank could practically hear his own heartbeat thundering away as he scrambled to get his shit together. 

“Sorry, Connor. I should have...said something—”

“No, it’s...,” Connor trailed off, biting his lip. “It’s fine. I was just working on some...practical skills.”

“Dancing?” Hank asked, eyebrows climbing upward. 

Connor turned away, continuing his food preparation as he answered. “I don’t like to have such large gaps in my knowledge when it comes to social interactions. I want to be prepared, should the need arise.”

“The need. To dance.” Hank repeated, deadpan, though he was smiling broadly now. 

“Can we just drop it now?” Connor asked, his voice strained but level. 

Hank decided to be merciful, seeing that Connor was truly upset with himself for being caught. He wished he could make him understand that he had nothing to be embarrassed about. He’d looked good,  _ really _ good. But instead of saying any of that, Hank just said: 

“Sure, Con.” 

He left Connor to finish cooking in peace and retreated to his bedroom. Hank’s thoughts churned as he shuffled out of his jeans and into some ratty pajama bottoms, losing his button up and keeping the black tee underneath. He just sat on the bed for a minute to gather his wits before facing Connor again, his heart still beating a little too quick for comfort.

He supposed he should be coming up with a good joke to hit him with, to relieve some tension, but his brain was unwilling to cooperate; it was much more eager to call up the image of Connor’s gyrating ass, as if it weren’t already seared to the insides of his eyelids. Now that he’d officially acknowledged his feelings for Connor, Hank was finding it harder to play it cool, especially when he did adorable shit like dancing and getting embarrassed about it. 

God, he was so fucked. 

 

The rest of the night went uneventfully; Connor made some kind of vegetable lasagna dish, which Hank grudgingly admitted ‘wasn’t bad’. A pleased little smile curled the android’s lips; if he was still upset about being caught earlier, he was hiding it well. 

They retired to the living room after dinner, and Hank put on a football game he’d recorded earlier in the week and never got around to watching. Connor sat quietly nearby, mostly observing Hank’s reactions with amusement. The purpose of the sport escaped Connor’s understanding but he seemed more than happy to watch Hank enjoy himself. 

Again and again, Hank was tempted to reach out and touch him somehow. His palm itched to slide over Connor’s knee, to rest on his thigh, or catch his long pretty fingers between his own. He had to drag his attention back to the game every time his thoughts began to wander, grateful that he wasn’t the one keeping score. 

When the game was over, Hank turned to speak and froze in place. Connor had fallen asleep; he sat with his legs curled under him, head resting on the back of the couch. The pale length of his neck was bared, as well as the suggestion of his collarbone. There was a freckle under his simulated adam’s apple that Hank had never noticed before and now couldn’t stop noticing. Connor’s face was slack and peaceful, lips barely parted, LED pulsing a slow, easy blue.

Hank had never actually seen Connor sleep before. He was always up before Hank in the morning, but that wasn’t too difficult— Hank was a notorious late sleeper. He felt weird for watching but it was too novel of an opportunity to pass up. Seeing him so still made him realize how animated Connor had become over the course of their friendship. His heart warmed to think he’d played a part in Connor’s self-discovery. 

Reluctantly, Hank stood to leave and was struck with the memory of Connor’s first night in his house. With a fond smile, he pulled the blanket off the arm of the couch and draped it gently over Connor’s sleeping form. Before he could think better of it, he leaned down and kissed his forehead. 

“What’re you doin’ to me,” Hank sighed, voice barely a whisper. 

He switched off the TV and went to bed. He needed as much rest as he could get, in order to brave the dreaded  _ party _ . 

 

…

 

Connor non-ironically loved his ugly Christmas sweater. He might as well have been wearing Gucci, from the amount of poise he carried himself with. Hank had to admit, he pulled it off. Then again, was there anything that Connor couldn’t make look good? Speaking of looking good, Connor’s tight black jeans clung to his legs and ass in spectacular ways that drove Hank to distraction. 

He tried to keep his eyes above the belt as he followed Connor into the station. Feeling unreasonably nervous, Hank couldn’t imagine how Connor was feeling. He had the urge to reach out and take Connor’s hand, give it a reassuring squeeze, and maybe not let go for the rest of the night. He stuffed his hands in his pockets instead. 

The party was in full swing by the time they arrived. (Connor wanted to get there early but Hank insisted that it was far more fashionable to arrive late.) Connor was still struggling to wrap his brain around that concept, but decided he’d defer to Hank’s judgement “just this once”.  

Everyone who noticed them come in, greeted Connor and Hank enthusiastically. Reed was milling around in the back, a sour look on his face; Fowler gave them both a respectful nod. Chris approached and offered his hand to Connor. 

Connor blinked at it for a moment before hesitantly taking it in his own.

“I wanted to say congratulations,” Chris said quietly, his expression sincere. “And I wanted to apologize for being on the wrong side for so long. You deserve to be free.”

Connor’s LED was spinning on yellow; he looked like he could hardly believe his ears. A slow smile spread across his face, dimpling his cheeks and lighting up his eyes. 

“Thank you,” Connor replied, giving Chris’s hand a final squeeze before pulling away.

Chris smiled and turned his attention to Hank. “Good to see you here, Anderson. We’ve missed you the last few years.” 

“Yeah, well, I’d rather be sprawled out on the couch right now but Connor wouldn’t hear of it.”

Chris chuckled and shook his head. The look on his face said he could tease Hank about this, but given the occasion, he’d be merciful. Someone new entered behind Connor and Hank; Chris ducked around them to greet the newcomers and Connor led Hank deeper into the party. Hank cast an anxious look over his shoulder, toward the exit that was beckoning his escape. 

_ Do it for Connor.  _

Hank steeled himself, put on his least bitchy expression, and prepared to mingle. But first, a drink. 

Connor was pleasantly surprised by the generally warm reception he was given. Almost everyone seemed to be making a genuine attempt to treat him like a person, which was more than he’d anticipated. Even Reed had yet to be outwardly hateful, but the night was still young. 

The DPD must have hired a professional, or an android, to decorate the party. Everything matched perfectly, in alternating tones of blue and silver. The trees (of which there were two) were wrapped with thick silver tinsel and hung with cerulean and indigo orbs. Remarkably shiny silver stars topped them both. The tables were draped with blue and silver cloth and matching slips covered the chairs. 

There was a table laden with trays of party foods purchased from a store, and beside them a collection of clearly homemade dishes. There were two large coolers stuffed with beer and soda; on an adjoining table were bottles of champagne, one open and being poured into flutes by a woman that Connor deduced to be the caterer. 

Despite how nicely the place was decorated, the mood was relaxed— officers milled about, talking, drinking, trading stories with one another. Hank had gone for a beer nearly the moment they’d reached the party. This perturbed Connor but he didn’t want to say anything to ruin the evening; he filed that concern away for later. 

Hank was conversing quietly with Fowler, who cut his eyes briefly to Connor. Hank nodded, speaking too low for even Connor’s high powered hearing. Then, Hank turned around and started heading his way. Connor quickly found something else to look at, as if he hadn’t been watching Hank’s every move. He even feigned surprise when the Lieutenant approached, but from the look on Hank’s face, he wasn’t very convincing.  

Before Connor could ask any questions, Fowler’s voice cut through the din, calling for everyone’s attention. 

“First, I want to thank everybody for coming out tonight, despite the shitty weather,” he paused for the murmurs of agreement from the others. 

Connor felt Hank’s warm palm touch the small of his back and suppressed the tremor that tried to wrack his frame. His heart fluttered and sped up. 

“Secondly, I would like to acknowledge someone who has demonstrated all the qualities I look for in a great detective: intelligent, intuitive, brave in the face of adversity…” 

Fowler reached under the table behind him and brought out a black box. He held it extended, looking directly at Connor. 

“Connor,” Fowler said. 

The android’s eyes widened, thirium pump going wild. Hank’s hand gave him a little push forward. With a slight stagger, Connor moved toward Fowler, his hands closing around the box. He removed the lid and gasped, LED flashing yellow, and then a bright, glowing blue. 

“I’d like to present you with your badge and service weapon, as well as reinstate you as Hank’s partner. You’ve more than proved yourself a capable team and I look forward seeing what you two accomplish.”

Hank finished his second beer, using the can to hide the proud smile on his face. Connor looked so innocently bewildered, standing there with his badge in his hands. The shock gave way to pure happiness, his face glowing with the force of his smile. If Hank wasn’t mistaken, there was a glimmer of unshed tears in his big brown eyes. 

“I…” Connor started, for once at a loss for words. He looked back up at Fowler, earnest with gratitude. “Thank you for accepting me. It would be my privilege to continue to serve the great city of Detroit.”

The room erupted into applause; Connor startled and turned around, casting his gaze around the room. A grin bloomed on his face, which was steadily turning pink at all the positive attention. He graciously accepted all the handshakes and back-pats that were foisted upon him as he slowly made his way back to where Hank was waiting. 

The excitement was coming off Connor in waves; his eyes were bright with emotion when he met Hank’s gaze. He was clutching the box to his chest as if it were something fragile and precious. 

“I’m so fuckin’ proud of you, Connor,” it was out of Hank’s mouth before he could think any better of it. 

The expression Connor directed at him was so breathtakingly tender that Hank worried his poor heart would give out. He ached with love for Connor, wanted to pull him into his arms and hold him tight, everyone else be damned. He settled for a hand on Connor’s shoulder, squeezing gently through the knit of his sweater.

“Thank you, Hank.” 

“How bout we get you a drink?”

Connor grinned. “Champagne sounds appropriate, given the circumstance.”

Hank gestured for Connor to wait and slipped back into the crowd of people lingering by the booze. He tossed his empty beer can and grabbed two flutes of bubbly. He made his way back to Connor, holding the drinks carefully aloft. The android took the proffered glass and held it up to Hank’s for a toast. 

“To Connor, the little android that could,” Hank joked, clinking his glass noisily against Connor’s. 

Connor rolled his eyes but Hank didn’t miss the little grin he hid behind the rim of his glass. He took a tentative sip, his nose crinkling as the bubbles popped against his lips. Hank chuckled and threw his entire flute back in one go. He was so used to getting blackout drunk that he sometimes forgot that drinking could be a social activity, and not just a means to an end. He considered going back for another glass but Connor’s facial expression prevented him from leaving just yet. 

He wore a look of consternation, brows furrowed as he stared down at the glass in his hand. 

“Well?” Hank asked, “You’re looking at it like it personally offended you.”

Connor’s LED swirled as he considered his answer. “The bubbles are... strange but not unwelcome. The concept of taste is still new to me but I think I like it.”

Hank watched as Connor tipped back the rest of his champagne, his eyes fixed to the graceful length of Connor’s neck as he swallowed. He licked his own lips, suddenly feeling parched. One more glass wouldn’t do him any harm. Maybe it would take the edge off his tumultuous thoughts, and maybe he’d be able to go five minutes without ogling his partner. 

After his two beers and two flutes of champagne, Hank started to feel pleasantly dull, a familiar warmth spreading through his limbs. He wouldn’t call himself truly buzzed though, so he grabbed another glass while Connor was deep in conversation with a little cluster of beat cops. It was clear that they admired Connor, and at least two of them looked like they were developing one hell of a crush. 

_ Well, good.  _ Hank told himself. Good for everyone finally realizing how great he is. Good that I’m not his only human friend. He took a long swig, trying not to feel the stirrings of jealousy festering in his gut. It was childish but something about Connor freely giving his smile to others; the one usually reserved for Hank and Sumo, made Hank feel a little insecure. 

Which was ridiculous, because what was he? Fifteen? Hank shook his head, polished off his glass, and decided to hit the restroom while Connor was preoccupied. By the time he got back to the party, Connor was already looking for him. 

“Hank!” he said a little too enthusiastically as he hurried over. 

There was something obviously different about the way he carried himself; his hair was falling out of place and his eyes had a glassy, dreamy look about them. 

“Are you already fucking drunk?” Hank asked. 

Connor smiled in response, his flushed cheeks dimpling in that maddening way that kept Hank up at night. He burst into an unprompted giggle as Hank continued to look at him, which pretty much answered Hank’s question. Connor leaned further into Hank’s space. He caught the faint smell of champagne on Connor’s breath when he spoke. 

“Maybe a little,” he said, with a cheeky bounce of his eyebrows.

“Figured you’d be a lightweight,” Hank chuckled.

Connor grabbed him by the sleeve and tugged, “Come here, Hank.”

“Where’re we goin’?” Hank asked, stumbling after Connor as he was pulled along.

“We’re going to interact with our peers,” Connor chirped over his shoulder. 

Hank groaned and stopped in his tracks. 

Connor turned back to him, frustrated. “Hank come on, you’re already here.”

The Lieutenant sighed, once again cutting his eyes toward the exit, and then back to Connor’s expectant face. 

“Please.” Connor added, and that was that.

Hank gave out faster than wet tissue paper, swearing under his breath as he reluctantly followed his partner to a group of people who used to be Hank’s friends. Back when he cared to have those. He joined Connor at the table, expecting his presence to make it awkward, but he was welcomed with enthusiasm. Every now and then, Connor would glance at him or press their shoulders together; it was grounding and Hank was grateful for it.

 

Connor liked the warm, buzzing feeling brought on by the alcohol, for once understanding the human desire to drink. It could be quite pleasant, indeed. He was happy to have Hank beside him though the urge to make physical contact was getting harder and harder for Connor to ignore. He found excuses to touch, gently nudging their feet together under the table, knees bumping. Hank didn’t seem to mind and Connor wondered where he would draw the line. 

He envisioned climbing into Hank’s lap right here in front of everyone, maybe digging his fingers into Hank’s shaggy hair. He felt his heartbeat quicken, snatching his gaze away from his partner before he could spot him staring again. He couldn’t help it; Hank looked especially handsome tonight, not to mention the inviting softness his ugly sweater offered. It was all Connor could do to keep his hands to himself.

Gavin Reed was still lurking around the perimeter of the party, bragging loudly to his cohorts. Every now and then, Connor would catch him looking, his gaze full of suspicion and hatred. Connor did his best to not react, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. He was fairly sure Reed wouldn’t try anything in the middle of a Christmas party, unless he was dumber than he looked. 

Hank briefly excused himself to grab another can of beer, which Connor asked to try.

“I guess,” Hank said with a shrug, “Don’t get too excited though, it’s just beer.”

Connor took a sip and nearly spat it back out. Unfortunately, social decorum forced him to swallow, and he did so with a shudder. 

Hank snorted. “Good, right?”

It was one thing to drink when the beverage tasted good but Connor couldn’t understand why anyone in their right mind would willingly imbibe beer. 

“I taste...molecules and...wheat,” Connor said, for lack of a better explanation for the sensory mess happening in his mouth. It was hard to tell how much of it was smell and how much was taste, but neither was good.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Hank replied, taking a long swig from the can. Connor watched him with newfound horror. 

“I don’t wish to acquire it.”

Hank laughed and jostled his shoulder. Connor realized the others at the table were watching this exchange. Ben had a wry look in his eyes; he and Chris exchanged a knowing glance but neither interrupted the moment. He wondered what they assumed about his and Hank’s relationship; could they sense Connor’s feelings in the way they interacted? If it was so easy to figure him out, was Hank just ignoring it and hoping Connor’s infatuation would wear off? Connor felt uncomfortably warm, his vision swimming a little. 

“Excuse me,” he said, standing abruptly. Hank stared up at him in surprise but Connor’s vision was tunneling, his stress gauge rising. “I just need some fresh air.” 

His foot caught on the table and he almost tripped. Face flaring with heat, Connor beat a hasty retreat toward the nearest side door. The cold burst of wind was instantly soothing, the quiet of the winter night chasing back the panic that had settled in his chest. Connor took a deep breath, letting the frigid air lower his core temperature. 

He heard footsteps behind him, Hank’s familiar tread approaching the door. He tapped it gently with his knuckles before pushing it open, his concerned eyes finding Connor’s in the semi-darkness. Connor felt a twinge of guilt for having put that worry there and he tried to smile reassuringly. 

“I’m okay, Hank.”

He didn’t look convinced. “What happened back there?”

“Another panic attack, I believe, brought on by overstimulation,” Connor explained evenly. 

Hank nodded, fidgeting with the hair at the nape of his neck— a nervous tic that Connor had begun to pick up on. “Yeah, parties, huh.”

A beat of silence passed before Connor announced he was ready to go back inside. 

“We can just leave if you want,” Hank offered, clearly eager to be done with it all.

Connor grinned, “Soon, Hank. Promise.”

 

The party was winding down when Hank and Connor returned and Hank breathed a sigh of relief. It wouldn’t be too much longer now. He turned to his partner and found Connor staring upwards with a look of consternation on his face. 

“You mad at the ceiling now?” Hank asked. He followed the android’s gaze and his own eyes widened. “Oh.”

The doorway they were lingering in was adorned with a healthy sprig of mistletoe, where it was sure to catch everyone who passed through. Hank’s blood warmed at the implications of Connor being beside him. 

“Yet another plant,” Connor remarked, still squinting up at the mistletoe. “And a poisonous one at that. I can’t understand the correlation between the birth of Jesus and bringing plants indoors.”

Hank laughed, “There isn’t one. It’s got nothin’ to do with Jesus.”

Connor turned his befuddled gaze on Hank, his color still high from the alcohol. His lips were pink and they looked so, so soft. Hank couldn’t tear his eyes away from the shape of them as they spoke. 

“Then what’s the point of it?” Connor asked, LED flashing yellow. 

And oh, wasn’t that just perfect. This moment was all wrapped up like a gift for Hank and he was a little too drunk to resist the temptation. 

“Lemme show you,” Hank said, his heart thundering away as he caught Connor by the back of the neck. He didn’t miss the way Connor’s eyes darkened, lashes fluttering.

Connor gasped, stumbling forward; Hank met him halfway, catching his open mouth in a kiss. Connor seized up against him and then...melted. Hank felt his whole body loosen under his touch, and then Connor’s lips were moving against his own. Hank shivered, arousal flooding his system with stunning force. Too much, not here.

Hank broke the contact between them and Connor slowly blinked his eyes open, face and mouth flushed. It took all of Hank’s willpower to let him go, when all he wanted was to drag him into another kiss, and another, and another.

He cast a quick look around, relieved to see that nobody was looking in their direction. The room had mostly cleared out, everyone slowly making their way toward the exit. The relief Hank briefly felt was snatched away, when his gaze landed on a pair of glittering weasel eyes. Gavin fucking Reed. Of all people who could have seen, it had to be Reed.

The normally hostile expression he wore had fallen away, replaced with a comical mask of shock, mouth open, eyes wide. Hank stared back at him, a smirk growing on his own face. Connor stood stock still beside him, his attention also trained on Gavin. All talk, as usual, Reed backed down from the challenge, his face red with either anger or embarrassment as he turned away. 

“Fuckin’ prick,” Hank huffed, “hope he got a good eyeful.”

Connor was looking at him with a dazed expression, LED still pulsing yellow. He opened his mouth but whatever he’d wanted to say was drowned out by Ben and his wife, wishing them goodnight and a merry Christmas. Hank returned the sentiment, Connor nodding politely to them, though his expression still seemed lost. 

“Can we please go home now?” Hank asked, after the couple had walked away. 

“Uh. Sure, Hank.”

_ Uh? Did I break his brain? Maybe he’s still a little tipsy.  _

“Cool, grab your shit and let’s cheese it.”

  
  


Connor was silent in the car, playing the kiss over and over again in his memory. His lips still tingled with the remembered sensation of the Lieutenant’s mouth on his own. He didn’t even think to argue with Hank about getting behind the wheel after drinking. Hank was a careful driver though, even more so in recent years, for obvious reasons.

Snow whipped past the windows, flying at the windshield in slow motion as if the car were hurtling through the stars. Connor was grateful his LED was on the right side of his head because he wouldn’t be able to hide the uncertain yellow from his partner. For the first time, he seriously considered the merits of removing it altogether. 

Hank hadn’t said anything since getting in the car, but he was tapping his hands on the steering wheel in rhythm with the music. If he picked up on Connor’s discomfort, he didn’t mention it. Connor burned to ask him about the kiss but part of him was afraid of the answer he would receive.

_ He only kissed me because a poison plant told him to _ , Connor thought unhelpfully. That’s why Hank seemed to be unbothered; the kiss meant nothing to him. A sharp, rending pain occurred in Connor’s chest, as if his metaphorical heart were tearing. He set his jaw against the burning in his eyes, tamping down on the urge to cry.

Now that he knew what he was missing, Connor wanted Hank all the more. He yearned for another kiss, another touch, anything. He twisted his hands in his lap, wishing he could close the distance between them and tangle up Hank’s fingers with his own. But that chasm was too large to cross; there might as well be a canyon keeping them apart.

Hank pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. Connor hadn’t said a word the whole trip, and his silence persisted once they were inside the house. Hank was starting to worry; the kiss had happened on an impulse. He didn’t think through the consequences and now their entire friendship was in jeopardy.

Was he angry? Disgusted? Hank was dying to know but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. What if Connor didn’t want anything to do with him now? Maybe he thought Hank was just taking advantage of him or messing with him. A cold stone sank to the pit of Hank’s gut. He should’ve known acting on his feelings would only fuck things up.

He bit his tongue against all the things he was desperate to say, instead saying, “I’mma grab a shower.”

“Okay,” Connor said. He was sitting on the couch, gazing absently at the Christmas tree. Hank was bothered to see that his LED was still frantically spinning on yellow. 

He could go over to him, maybe sit beside him on the couch. They could talk and get it all out in the open; perhaps they’d even be able to salvage their friendship. But that took courage and Hank’s reserves had run dry for the evening. So, he did the easy thing and escaped to the bathroom, his last sanctuary, and attempted to wash off all of his bad decisions before bed.

Sober, rested Hank would deal with this mess at a later date. For now, he was gonna stand under the shower and jerk his dick to the memory of Connor’s lips moving under his own. He slapped his palm against the wall and rocked into his fist, imagining Connor kneeling between his legs with that pretty mouth open. It didn’t take long to spill into his hand with a low groan, and let the evidence flow down the drain. 

Hank couldn’t remember the last time he was so worked up over someone. Connor had him wrapped around his little finger and there was no place Hank would rather be. 

If he planned on keeping his meager sanity, they really, really needed to talk. 

But, tomorrow. Tomorrow for sure. 

 


End file.
